Chapter Forty The Artisan
Chapter Forty
The Artisan
If I weren’t already recognizable to the front staff, they may have written me off as insane. Though, I was running too fast to see if they thought as such, despite the familiarity.
My footsteps pounded down the stairs to the lower level before I began skipping steps altogether.
“Kostya!” My voice echoed almost as loudly as the slapping of my soles on concrete, and I picked up a faster pace as I rounded the corner and went straight into the embalming room.
Kostya stood by the table, leaning on it with his hands gripping the edge. I hardly recognized my mirthful friend, as his face was stone and his posture rigid. I knew the news had gotten to him, in the form of Mr. Carlisle’s arm on his slab.
“Kostya.” A breathless plea. “I need your help.”
His eyes lifted from the severed limb to me, his eyes dark and sleepless. “Why?” was all he could manage. Then, louder: “Why?”
I approached the table slowly, understanding the sensitivity of the situation.
He scoffed in disbelief, shaking his head. “Hunt said this was your doing. Is it true?”
“It doesn’t matter, he will say it is me whether he has evidence or not,” I explained carefully. “My father-in-law wants me to disappear, and he’s going to make sure I do. But before I do, I have a favor to ask.”
“I want to believe in my heart you are a good man. My friend, my brother. My brother would not do this.”
“I don’t have much time.” I swallowed.
“I imagine so.” He checked his timepiece. “Reception would have phoned the police when they recognized you.”
“I need your help.”
“I don’t know if I can give more than I already have. I’ll already be accosted for letting you down here. I may lose my job.”
“I didn’t want you to get caught up in this.”
“Well, now I have! By God, Arkady, you murdered my employer!”
“He deserved it.” I dug around inside my bag.
“You aren’t the one who gets to decide these things!”
I tossed Kostya my evidence, and he caught it, posture freezing.
In his hands, my justification was wrapped neatly in butcher paper.
Though, the smell was more apparent now that it had left my satchel.
The paper was deteriorating already from the moisture, dripping onto the table as Kostya cupped it as if I’d just tossed him a duckling or something to be handled with great care.
I’d argue that was what she deserved—to be handled with care, to have her truth be told.
“Arkady . . .” His tone was steady. It always was when he was stern.
“Open it, Konstantin.” I knew he would recognize the smell, at the very least. “I just need confirmation.”
He peeled back the soggy paper, undoing it carefully so as not to disturb the contents. He peeled back the last piece of paper, then placed it before him on the table, right next to Vincent’s arm.
A hand, severed at the wrist with a surgical bone saw. It was easy to see there was an experienced technique at work here, though it was half burnt and improperly refrigerated for far too long.
“Where did you get this?”
“I found it in my wife’s icebox.” I neglected to mention the other samples I’d found. The body had been separated into sections. I’d have brought it in and reunited the limbs, but some were missing.
My throat had been dry since I’d found them, a manifestation of my inner dealings of the matter. Hard to swallow.
Embarrassingly, I assumed Vincent had paid money for her past services. Now, I realized they were bartering with something much more illicit.
Kostya looked alarmed, in that way you would expect ringing in the ears amid genuine shock. I couldn’t tell him the whole truth. Would he judge her? Would he judge me?
I knew he would.
“I think Vincent was making her dispose of evidence.” In all fairness, this wasn’t a lie. “I need you to confirm it’s her,” I finished, sliding him my pocket sketchbook cautiously.
He opened the sketchbook to the charcoal etching of the hand from the last body I’d observed in his laboratory. I knew it was the same, I’m a man of detail—it was an exact match. I needed him to see it. To trust that I was no monster.
His eyes flicked back and forth between the hand and the sketch, his mind making the connection, already beginning to justify my actions. With a long, dizzy sigh, he nodded.
Kostya was silent for a moment, staring down at the larger appendage before us, hyper-fixated on the glimmering signet ring against the sterile flesh. “So you did do it?”
“Yes.”
He looked me straight in the eye. “Answer me this once, as a kindness. Why did you do it?”
“I did it for her.”
He nodded, weighing my answer against a feather in his mind. “Did you have anything to do with the disappearance of our fosters?”
I was careful about my words. “Would you believe they deserved different if I did?”
Kostya was known as a sensitive man, but this was the first time I’d seen him moved to tears.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“They’ll be here soon.”
“Please, Kostya, help me,” I begged, taking his hand and folding his fingers over a paper.
“Call these numbers, at the specified times. Tell them where I’ll be.
If you do this for me, there will be no one to punish you.
You can testify against me if this doesn’t work, tell them I threatened your wife and child. ”
“I would leave.” He cleared his throat, tucking the paper in his smock pocket, turning his back to me as he leaned against the table.
I nodded, stepping back to the door, but one thing kept me.
“When Hunt comes,” I began, Kostya glancing over his shoulder at me, “tell him I will be at the ballet.”
He looked confused, squinting as if I’d told a joke at a funeral.
“He’ll know what I mean”—I released a deep, assured exhale—“trust me.”